Prologue: London 1924
Edith Crawley steps over the curb, a hand on her head to keep her new cloche from flying off in the wind. She's been gone too long, and London weather, while always fickle, seems downright cruel now. It starts to drizzle, and she regrets not wearing a proper coat, but there's a measure of freedom in making her own decisions, even silly ones.
Just a few yards from her aunt's house, she pulls a slim cigarette case out of her bag and lights up, her hands shaking from the cold wet that surrounds her. She takes a long drag and exhales, and just like that, the noises around her still. In the silence, she can feel the city, its heartbeat thrumming through her soles. She can taste its joy, but also its aching loneliness, in the fat drops of rain that fall on her face. She longs to speak to the city, to know it.
A car horn bleats, startling her into dropping the cigarette. She grinds it into the pavement and ignores the horn. She reaches into the bag to salvage another smoke, but when the noise persists, she hisses and wheels around, careening into the man behind her.
Edith looks up, startled. "Sir Anthony." She takes the elbow he offers and rights herself, the cigarette she's holding almost as limp as she is. "I didn't know you were in London."
"Oh, I don't come often. But I did have some business with my bank."
"Nothing...unpleasant, I hope."
"No, no. No more than usual." He smiles in his usual way, friendly but diffident and she's struck by how different he is to the men she now keeps company with. They're young, sparkling things, full of good humour, but rather full of themselves too. Sir Anthony's older and grown dull with age. But there's a solidity to him, a sense of substance that draws her in.
"Have you been in London long?"
"No. Just a few days, really." She pauses, trying to read his face. But he's polite and inscrutable. "I go back to America in a week."
"Ah, yes. And how is Mrs. Levinson?"
"She's well. Happy to not have me under foot, I'm sure."
He smiles politely. "And you? You're well?"
It's an innocent question, but he doesn't meet her eyes. That's unusual, and it sets her thinking about how he must see her now, all uncovered legs and unlit cigarette.
She decides to abandon a lifetime of restraint and waves a hand at herself. "You…disapprove?"
"No, no. Not at all." He pauses, awkward. "I think you should be what you are, Lady Edith. What makes you happy." His words are simple, innocent even, but when Edith's mind catches up, it is plain what he's asking. Are you happy?.
To that, she has no answer, no bluster to cover with. They lapse into a silence that Edith cannot bring herself to break.
Sir Anthony does it for her. "Well, I'll be off then."
He doffs his hat and heads back to his car, and Edith feels an odd pang. It's the loss of a chance, a dream dissolving in the cold morning light.
She finds her voice and croaks out a few words. "It's so good to see you again, Sir Anthony."
"And you."
